The rainy moon of all the world is weary,

And from its urn a gloomy cold pours down,

Upon the pallid inmates of the mortuary,

And on the neighbouring outskirts of the town.

My wasted cat, in searching for a litter,

Bestirs its mangy paws from post to post;

(A poet’s soul that wanders in the gutter,

With the jaded voice of a shiv’ring ghost).

The smoking pine-log, while the drone laments,

Accompanies the wheezy pendulum,

The while amidst a haze of dirty scents,

—Those fatal remnants of a sick man’s room—

The gallant knave of hearts and queen of spades

Relate their ancient amorous escapades.